


Silenced

by whooshboomtree



Category: Rockman | Mega Man Classic
Genre: Angst, Character Development, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-06-05 15:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6709711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whooshboomtree/pseuds/whooshboomtree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wily finally grows tired of Forte's backtalking and decides to shut him up for good, leaving the SWN with an existential crisis and a host of emotions he's never dealt with before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So back in...2013 I think it was, I wrote a six-page oneshot for a Forte RP blog, after being given the one-word prompt 'silenced'. I was proud of it at the time, and then recently I went back and reread it, felt a lot less proud, and decided to rewrite it from scratch.  
> It went from a six page oneshot to TWENTY six pages. And six chapters.  
> Oops.

Forte sighed heavily as he sank down onto his bed- if you could even call it a bed, he thought with a snort, looking down ruefully at the old mattress thrown on the floor. He reached out to pat his support unit’s head as Gospel ambled over to plop down next to him, a soft hiss of pain escaping him when a fresh pain jolted through his shoulder. Fuck that damn prototype Lightbot, fuck him for having good balance, and to add to that fuck trying to fight on flimsy as shit scaffolding.

A badly wrenched shoulder and another blow to his pride certainly weren’t worth the raw construction materials Wily had sent him to retrieve. Which he hadn’t managed to retrieve regardless thanks to that Asimov-forsaken prototype showing up.

“Just another day in the life, huh Gos,” he murmured, idly scratching the wolfbot behind the ears and redirecting what few nanites he had to start repairs on his shoulder. He was starting to run dangerously low, he’d need a new dose soon- but then, it wasn’t like he could just ask his creator for any.

As soon as he thought as much, his communicator chirped sharply in his ear, a wordless signal that he was wanted in the doctor’s main lab _immediately_ , no questions asked. Gospel whined in protest, but Forte shook his head, patting the wolfbot’s cheek before standing up. “Y’know it’ll just be worse the longer he waits, boy,” he said. “C’mon, let’s get this over with so we can both grab a nap, eh?”

He loped down the hall to his creator’s lab with Gospel ambling close at his side, only the slight lift of his shoulders and the restlessness of his gaze betraying his nervousness. “Whaddaya want, old man,” he grunted as he stepped into the lab.

The aging doctor was working at one of his consoles and didn’t so much as look up at the SWN’s voice. Forte gave a quiet snort of disdain at what he saw on the lab’s numerous console screens, bits and pieces of design and coding for the newest and supposedly strongest DWN model having become an annoyingly familiar sight by now. “Did you get the materials, Forte?” Wily spoke up at last.

“No,” Forte replied bluntly. “Prototype showed up. I didn’t get shit. Anything else, or can I go now?”

Once again, there was a brief silence before Wily spoke again, his back turned so that his expression was hidden and his tone giving nothing away. “You couldn’t manage to best a single prototype one-on-one?”

“Come off it,” Forte sneered. “You know how he is, it’s not like any of your other fuck-up robot masters have managed to lay a scratch on him. Can I _go_ now?”

“Stay where you _are_ , Forte.”

The SWN winced, his programming making it damn near impossible to ignore a direct order from his creator. “I’m getting tired of your excuses, Forte,” Wily said, finally standing up and turning to approach the robot master. “Every single mission, every day I give you an order, excuses, excuses, more _excuses_. Why do I bother keeping you around when you never manage to succeed at even the _smallest_ tasks that I give you?”

Forte fell silent, knowing well enough by now that the best way to get through one of Wily’s fits was to simply keep his mouth shut and let the old man rant. It was safer than trying to talk back and risking feeding the fires of Wily’s temper.

At least, that was normally the case, until Forte noticed the crowbar in Wily’s right hand.

Forte ducked half a second too late, the metal bar slamming into the side of his head hard enough to send him staggering sideways and make every circuit in his skull ring. He barely kept on his feet, silencing Gospel’s snarl with a sharp mental command and taking a moment to regain his balance before lifting his head to fix his creator with a sharp glare. “ _Listen_ to me when I’m talking to you,” Wily hissed out.

“I _am_ listening,” Forte snapped, slowly straightening up and trying to hide the unease that was rising in his core. This was a _dangerous_ mood for the old man to be in; last time he’d been this riled up, Forte had seen the results of the unfortunate robot master who’d taken him a mug of coffee to placate him.

Or, to be more accurate, the remains of said unfortunate robot master.

“I’m sick and _tired_ of your excuses,” Wily went on, circling around Forte like a cat circling around a cornered mouse. “And your failures, and your _backtalk_. Not a _word_!” he added in a snap when Forte started to open his mouth. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you, SWN. Not one _word_.”

Every instinct in Forte’s body was screaming at him to run, run like _hell_ and not look back- but that damned _programming_ of his that practically demanded that he obey orders from his creator, he couldn’t just ignore that he’d been told to _stay_.

_I’m a dog_ , he thought to himself, unconsciously tuning out most of his creator’s ongoing rant. _I’m just one of his dogs. I’m even more of a dog than Gospel . . ._

His thoughts were cut short by the metal crowbar crashing down against the back of his head, and he silently cursed himself for letting his guard down as he staggered forward and fell to his knees. “Gos, heel!” he said aloud when the wolfbot gave a low, defensive growl. “Heel, Gospel.”

The wolfbot sniffed in disagreement, but obediently sat down at his master’s side, continuing to make a quiet, threatening noise in Wily’s general direction. “I get it,” Forte said, knowing that at this point he had to do _something_ to placate the old man before things got too far out of hand. As much as it disgusted him, pride came second to walking away in one piece. “I get it, alright? I fucked up.”

“Stay where you are, SWN.”

Again, Forte became aware of his creator walking around him in a slow circle, though he was too dizzy to pinpoint the man’s exact position. “I ain’t had much luck lately,” he went on, staying on his knees with his gaze fixed on the ground and desperately racking his brain for something to say that would calm the doctor down. “I’ll do better next time, a’ite? I’ll try harder.” He wouldn’t, honestly; he was beyond caring about ‘trying harder’ for the old man’s sake at this point, but if it got him out of the lab safely-

“I said I didn’t want to hear another _word_ out of you!”

Forte felt a sharp, stinging pain in the back of his neck, his body going rigid as he became aware of the sedative beginning to course through his circuits. A powerful sedative, no less, his optics almost immediately beginning to blur and darken and all of the strength beginning to drain from his limbs. He was vaguely aware of a scrape of claws and a furious bark just before he felt his cheek hit the cold tile floor, followed by a shout and a yelp, but no amount of willpower could convince his limbs to move enough to help his support unit. “Gos, run,” he mumbled, the wolfbot’s pain striking through his processor as sharply as though it was his own. “Run, Gospel . . . out . . .”

Gospel’s soft, pained whine of protest was the last he heard before his systems went dark.

 

* * *

 

Waking was a slow, grueling process, like trying to wade through a chest-deep pool of sludge runoff. Not that Forte made a habit of wading through chest-deep pools of sludge runoff, but he had done a lot of stupid things in his time that he’d realized after the fact he probably shouldn’t make a habit of. He was semi-aware that his helmet and torso armor were missing, though that was secondary to the throbbing pain that was making every circuit in his head scream. Strangely enough though, his shoulder had stopped hurting.

Come to think of it, everything from his neck down felt oddly . . . numb. Numb, and . . . heavy, as though his systems had been in hibernation for several days straight. He lifted his hand, flinching slightly when his knuckles almost immediately struck clear plexiglass.

Asimov in heaven he hated pods.

It took a massive effort, but he managed to push himself into a sitting position and shove open the pod’s plexiglass front, breathing a soft sigh of relief at the fresh air on his features. That would help him wake up, even if he hated the acrid reek of the lab. It was still better than the stagnant, stuffy smell of a repair pod . . .

As soon as he struggled to his feet, he stumbled, barely managing to catch most of his weight on the nearest wall. It was dark, late he assumed, and all the consoles had been shut down for the night and Wily was nowhere to be seen. _Gospel_ , he called silently, reaching out to the wolfbot as best as he could over the mental connection they were programmed with. _Gospel, where are you?_ It was unusual for the wolfbot to be far away, especially when his master was in a repair pod; usually Gospel would practically be trying to dig through the plexiglass by the time Forte woke up.

But he received no answer, and that alone sent a cold pang of worry through his core.

He couldn’t remember what had happened after he’d passed out, but as he continued to move around, he could feel the sedative gradually beginning to wear off. His shoulder began to ache once again- unsurprising, it wasn’t as if he expected Wily to take the time or energy to _actually_ fix him before chucking him in a pod, though at this point he supposed he should be thankful that all of his limbs were still attached.

As he thought as much, he slowly became aware that something else was wrong- very wrong. His neck hurt. And the more the sedative’s effects faded, the more he realized that his neck hurt a _lot_. Strange though, he hadn’t wrenched it when he fell, and . . . no, no that wasn’t right either, the pain was coming from the inside of his _throat_.

He shook his head, wincing at the way the action send sharp jolts through his neck and shoulder, but finally managing to clear his head enough to start running a full system scan. Get out, he thought to himself. Get outside before Wily comes back, find Gospel, find somewhere safe. Good plan. Solid plan. Would be a much simpler plan if he could walk straight.

Fucking sedatives.

His scans began filtering data back to him, the results blipping in front of his left optic as he continued to half-walk half-stagger across the lab to grab his helmet and torso armor. Arms, good. Lower half of his body minus the last lingering bits of sedation throwing off his balance, good. Core, still running. Shoulder, damaged, he knew that already, skull casing, probably dented, but intact. But that pain in his throat-

**_Vocal processor damaged._**

**_Vocal systems running at 12% capacity._ **

Forte froze in the middle of securing the latches on his armor, all of the anger draining from his expression and giving way to . . . something else entirely. _Gos, where are you_ , he silently called again, his sense of dread only growing when he still received no response.

He slowly lifted a hand to his neck, gasping in pain as soon as his fingers touched shredded synth-skin that was still sticky with coolant. The sharp intake of breath itself sent a jolt through his neck, far worse than the pain of being hit with a crowbar, worse than having a limb snapped, worse, even, than taking a plasma shot point blank.

All of which were definitely things he needed to stop making a habit of.

His legs were shaking again as he rushed over to one of the consoles, tipping his head back and lowering his hand to get a better view of his neck in the reflection of the screen. But he wasn’t shaking from the sedative this time, this time it was . . . something else that he didn’t fully understand.

As soon as he looked, he wished that he hadn’t.

The thick, fire-retardant bodysuit on his neck had been torn aside, a jagged slice having been carved into the synth-skin and barely repaired with crude, careless sutures, the wound itself still oozing a slow trickle of coolant down Forte’s neck and chest. The SWN made an uncharacteristically soft noise, even that much sending another rush of pain through the inside of his throat.

_I don’t want to hear another word out of you, SWN_.

He stumbled away from the console on legs shaking so hard that he could barely keep his feet, memories starting to flow back to him like blood spilling out when one pulled a knife from a deep wound. He _hadn’t_ been fully sedated, he remembered, just enough so that he couldn’t move, couldn’t struggle or protest as a cold blade pierced through the synth skin of his neck, rough hands pulling skin apart and digging into the delicate circuits in his throat, ripping wires and crushing any piece of metal they came across-

Then the sharp needle jabbing into the edges of the open gouge, already sore and bleeding, then a hard pull, then again, stab and pull, over and over, causing more harm than help and barely holding the wound closed at all.

He couldn’t remember hearing himself scream- had he screamed? He remembered his mouth being open, every circuit in his body straining without success to fight back, to cry for help and tell him to _stop_ , and he remembered those cold, cold blue eyes leering down at him at him in triumph-

_Stop- stop, stop doing this, stop it stop it-!_

There was a soft _clank_ as his legs finally gave way and he hit the ground, and even then his first instinct was to curl up and cover his head with his arms as if that would somehow protect him from the memory. _Stop remembering, stop, I don’t want to remember any more, make it stop . . . !_

What the fuck was wrong with him, this wasn’t like him, he’d _never_ felt this small before! He’d risked his life more times than he could count, so why was he shaking so hard? Why was everything so _cold_ , why was it all closing in and making him want to run like a rabbit being chased by a fox?

Fear, he realized, almost reflexively curling himself into a smaller space and trying to find something, anything to focus on that _wasn’t_ the looming sense of dread, that _wasn’t_ the pain now making it feel like there was a ball of hot plasma caught in his throat. This was fear, wasn’t it?

For what he was almost certain was the first time in his life, Forte was terrified out of his wits.

He wanted Gospel. He wanted his support unit, he wanted to wrap his arms around the wolfbot and cling to his neck and not let go _ever_ , and . . . he _needed_ to find Gospel. Wily wouldn’t be out of the lab forever, if he was caught alone like this-

No. No, that couldn’t happen.

That _wouldn’t_ happen.

_Pull yourself together_ , he practically snapped at himself, still shaken and unsteady as he struggled to his feet. _Get it together, SWN, like hell you’re going to curl up and die here! Like hell!_

Get outside before Wily comes back, find Gospel, find somewhere safe.

He could do that much. The rest was up in the air, but that much he was sure even he could manage.

His hands still shaking, he quickly finished securing the latches on his armor and put on his helmet, temporarily shutting down his ventilation systems to stop the flow of air from making his throat hurt that much worse. Get outside, find Gospel, find somewhere safe. But where _was_ Gospel, the wolfbot still wasn’t answering over their connection, and if Wily really _had_ destroyed his support unit or otherwise shut him down, no amount of laws or programming- or fear- was going to stop Forte from ripping the doctor four new assholes.

That didn’t seem right though, Forte mused as he slunk through the halls. Gospel’s side of their connection wasn’t _dead_ , it was just _silent_. He was still _there_ , even if he wasn’t answering.

No time to stop at his room and grab his things, not even his toolkit, damn shame that it was. If Wily or even any of the other drones or robot masters found him, it would be . . . bad, to say the least.

As soon as he found the nearest window he’d fit through, he punched out the glass with one swing, heaving himself through and landing clumsily in the rain-soaked grass outside. The cold water on his skin sent another wave of pain through his neck, but he gritted his teeth and straightened up, his feet skidding as he sprinted away from the lab as fast as his legs would carry him.

Almost immediately, he felt his head begin to clear, the open air and the clean smell of the rain lifting some of the fog from his circuits- or maybe it was just that being away from the lab meant being away from a million different conflicting signal cloaks and scramblers. _Come on, Gos,_ he pressed. _Come on boy, show me where you are!_

Now there was something- faint, but something was there, almost like a faint itch at the corner of Forte’s mind. _Gospel, here! Come here, I don’t know where you are! Come find me!_

He felt his support unit reach toward him in a faint mental whine, but nothing more.

Forte gave a quiet growl of frustration, followed by a near-squeak of pain at the jolt that ensued once again. Stop . . . stop, stay calm, don’t freak out again, not safe to freak out, have to stop, can’t freak out. Bracing himself for what he knew was about to ensue, he stuck his fingers in his mouth and gave a loud, sharp whistle.

If it felt like he’d swallowed plasma before, now it felt like he’d swallowed some deadly combination of plasma, liquid metal, and electricity all at once.Ignoring that as much as he was able- which wasn’t very much, to tell the truth- Forte took a deep breath and whistled again, louder this time, feeling a faint spark of hope when Gospel nudged frantically at their connection. Again, he whistled, pressing on through the pouring rain, and it was only thanks to the arches on his helmet that he heard the faint whine from somewhere nearby.

“Go-” The instinctive attempt to speak ended in a choked, glitchy-sounding cry of pain, and for a few moments Forte wanted to sit down on his knees and curl up and shake again, just like before.

_No_.

Not when Gospel needed him.

He whistled again, and this time the answering whine was louder, clearly coming from somewhere within a thick bush nearby. When Forte looked more closely, he saw that the leaves and twigs had been snapped and trampled, as if something large had tried to burrow through for shelter.

As soon as he crouched down and peered into the bush, a wet tongue slopped across his face, and he fell backwards into the wet grass with a soft thump. Gospel wriggled free of the shrub, bits of twig and leaf stuck in every joint and mud smeared over his chassis, but Forte didn’t seem bothered by any of it, immediately latching his arms around the wolfbot’s neck. Gospel snuffled and whined in worry, but Forte only held on that much tighter, giving in to the strange feeling of _fear_ once again and letting himself shake.

But only for a few moments, and then he let go and sat up.

To his relief, Gospel seemed more dirty and badly shaken than severely injured, one paw slightly twisted and a small dent in the side of his head, but nothing that Forte couldn’t fix with a few basic tools. His own repairs would be far more of an issue.

Tools . . . he didn’t have any of his tools. His pride wasn’t so shot that he was prepared to go _there_ for help, and even if he could make it all the way to Cossack’s lab in Russia, which he couldn’t even if he wanted to, he would likely be turned away without a second thought.

Or maimed. Depended on Cossack’s mood, he supposed,

Part of him still wanted to curl up in a corner and never come out, but he squashed that part down with as much determination as he had left, slowly getting to his feet and ordering Gospel to follow him. The wolfbot stood as well, licking his master’s hand with a quiet noise of acknowledgement and practically pressing himself against Forte’s leg.

First things first, Forte needed a new set of tools.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention I find Forte and his circumstances potentially fascinating? Because WOW his character and circumstances are potentially fascinating when you delve past Capcom's surface.

He really didn’t want to do this.

If he was being honest with himself, his last several attempts to steal things, even small things, had ended poorly, to say the least. Usually with bruises to one or more parts of his pride or ego. Fuck, he hadn’t even managed to pocket a chocolate bar the other week without getting caught and chased out. Not to mention he was exhausted, soaking wet, cold, and still in an immeasurable amount of pain.

But he needed tools, for Gospel if nothing else.

_Stay_ , he commanded silently, leaving his support unit by a tree about a block away from the hospital. _Sit here and stay. I’ll come back._ Gospel whined in protest, and Forte shook his head, relieved for the mental link that allowed him to communicate with the wolfbot without the need to speak. _Stay, understand?_

Gospel sat down with a huff, and Forte nodded, giving him a pat on the head before turning to make his way around the block. He knew that Gospel wasn’t happy, but all the same, he couldn’t very well sneak into a hospital with a wolf following at his heels. It was going to be hard enough as it was; he’d never truly prided himself on being a stealth unit after all.

Normally speaking, he wouldn’t bother- he’d blow open a wall, run in, blow open a second wall, and run out. But not tonight. Not in this condition.

He circled the entire building twice before deciding on an entry point, a slightly cracked window three floors up. Someone’s office that they’d carelessly forgotten to lock, he assumed. All the better for him.

The climb up to the third floor was child’s play, even in his state, and for once he remembered to open the window _slowly_ lest any security alarms jolt him off of his perch. When he was met with only the soft, continued patter of rain and the light whistle of the breeze, he slid the window open the rest of the way and ducked inside,immediately making for the emergency exit floor plan pinned up on the far wall.

Beds, surgery, beds- supplies, first floor. That would make things easier when it came time to escape.

For the first time in his life, Forte found himself moving with deliberate stealth and precision, wariness gnawing at his nerves and making him more jumpy than he’d ever felt. He didn’t need much, a couple injections of nanites to speed his healing, some simple tools for repairs, probably a couple rolls of gauze just in case, and a blanket couldn’t hurt either. Get in, get out, stay alert, don’t get greedy . . .

Funny, he mused dryly, stealing things was a lot easier when he didn’t make a scene and draw so much attention to himself.

Get in, get out, stay alert, he kept repeating as he tied his supplies into a blanket to make them easier to carry. Get in, get out, stay alert, he was almost in the clear-

“You just can’t stay at home and behave yourself for one day, can you?”

_Shit_.

Forte reflexively jerked his head around at the sound of Blues’s voice, wincing at the sharp pain the motion sent through his neck. He knew that he must’ve looked like a complete wreck, still wet from the rain, eyes bleary with exhaustion, and neck a bloody mess, but if the robot master blocking the doorway felt any surprise or sympathy, he didn’t show as much beyond an almost imperceptible twitch of his lip.

So much for getting away subtly.

He spun and scooped up his supplies, a wave of malicious, otherworldly energy welling up in his core and releasing from his plasma cannon in an explosion of violet flame, easily tearing a hole in the far wall. Blues shouted the SWN’s name, but Forte didn’t look back, breaking into a sprint as soon as the shot left his weapon and bolting straight through the thick cloud of smoke and plasma.

A quick mental call had Gospel racing to join him, and once they were in sight of one another, a single leap for his master’s shoulders had the wolfbot’s systems combing with Forte’s to allow them both to take to the air. The cold wind whipping against his throat _burned_ , it burned like someone had set his neck on fire from the inside out, but he pressed on. It had stopped raining for the time being, but the thick clouds overhead still promised a wet night to come.

He didn’t stop flying for some time, not until the hospital was miles and miles away and he was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt that Blues hadn’t made an attempt to follow him. The last thing he wanted was the Lightbot’s persistent questions and aloof attitude, much less his sympathy.

Not that he expected much sympathy from someone like Blues regardless.

At last, he landed, touching down in a scrapyard some miles outside of the city.The scorch marks on the ground were evidence that the SWN had been here numerous times before, and that he’d used the near-abandoned space as an outlet for some of his countless temper tantrums. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen any humans around this yard, nor did he know the last time anyone had come by to dump more scrap.

That was okay, he thought, ordering Gospel to detach from his shoulders as he sank to the ground next to a large pile of scrap metal. That was okay. Everything was . . .

No . . . no, there was no point in lying, nothing was okay . . .

He dared to turn his head to check his reflection in one of the slabs of metal nearby, and as soon as he did, he felt the fear begin to creep back over him, felt his hands begin to shake. _Why_ , he asked himself as he fumbled to tear off enough gauze to wrap around his throat until he had the strength to do something more permanent. Why had this happened to him? He’d just been doing what he was programmed to do, right?

Right . . . ?

So why . . . why had his creator done _this_? Why was he being punished for trying to be strong? Why . . .

_Why_ . . . ?

Gospel wriggled his way into Forte’s arms with a quiet noise of comfort, licking his master’s cheek and nuzzling his injured shoulder with a cold, damp nose. _It hurts, Gos_ , he whispered over their mental link. _It hurts so much . . ._

_Master hurt?_ Gospel replied, laying down to allow Forte to nestle up closer to him. _Hurt, master . . ._

Forte nodded in silent agreement, shuffling around and eventually settling down with his head resting on the wolfbot’s side. A fresh raindrop plopped on his cheek, and he screwed his eyes shut, curling his knees to his chest and biting back a noise of distress. He was so cold . . .

Cold, and . . . and _scared_ . . .

_Master rest_ , Gospel insisted, refusing to lay his head down and instead keeping a watchful gaze fixed on the SWN. _Rest . . ._

Gospel was growling, but it wasn’t a threatening sound, only a low, soothing rumble that had often lulled Forte to sleep on restless nights. The drizzle quickly became a downpour once again, and Forte began to shiver as the chill seeped through his armor and the dirt under him became soaked into sticky mud. It wasn’t fair . . . it wasn’t fair, this wasn’t _fair_ , he knew he wasn’t a good person but he didn’t deserve _this_ , he hadn’t done anything to deserve this . . . !

He tried so hard, why didn’t anything ever work, why couldn’t he ever do it _right_ , even when he gave it all he had . . .

Fear and exhaustion finally overwhelmed his worn-down emotional matrix, and for the first time in his existence a weak, choked sob shook through his body. It wasn’t fair . . .

The storm raged on overhead through the remainder of the night, heedless of the SWN’s lonely despair.

 

* * *

 

The robot master was reluctant to open his eyes the next morning, even as he felt the weak sunshine trying to warm his cheek. It was only at Gospel’s nudge that he finally lifted his head, wincing as he slowly uncurled from his tight ball and pushed himself to sit up.

His entire body was cold and stiff, though the nanites he’d diverted the previous day seemed to have fixed most of the damage to his shoulder. Gospel appeared to be no worse after the wet night, his tail moving in a hesitant wag and his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. _Good boy_ , Forte told him, still having to remind himself to keep his mouth shut until further notice.

Asimov, his neck _hurt_.

He slowly got to his feet, trudging across the scrapyard to stand in front of a tall piece of titanium and get a better look at his reflection. _That’s not . . . me,_ he thought with a faint shudder. _That . . . can’t be . . ._

The reflection staring back at him looked nothing like a powerful warbot, shoulders slumped and eyes haunted and glazed with exhaustion, a ragged, coolant-soaked strip of gauze around his neck and his armor stained and crusted with splatters of mud. Weak. He looked . . . weak. Beaten down.

Broken.

_What do I do_ , he asked silently, unable to tear his eyes away from his own reflection. _What the fuck am I supposed to do now? Where the fuck do I_ go _, if I go back I’ll be killed but I can’t stay like this, I can’t talk, I can’t fight, I can’t do anything, I’m useless like this, I’m-_

Forte was jerked from his thoughts by Gospel’s teeth snapping down on his elbow- hard, though not quite hard enough to break skin, and the ensuing noise of pain was enough to send another stab through Forte’s throat. Gospel didn’t let go, fixing his master with narrowed eyes and letting a low, continuous growl rumble in his chest. _No_ , the wolfbot was repeating over and over again, his stance braced as if he was prepared to fight with everything he had to keep hold of the SWN’s arm. _No, no, no, master no, no, no, no . . ._

Forte simply blinked, too startled to tug his arm free or reprimand the wolfbot for biting him. _Strong_ , Gospel insisted. _Strong. Fix. Get stronger. Strong?_

Stronger . . .

The SWN crouched down, and Gospel released his arm, his tail once again beginning to move in a slow wag. _Strong_? Gospel repeated hopefully.

Forte nodded, lifting a still-unsteady hand to pat the top of his support unit’s head. _Strong_ , he agreed. _We’re strong, right boy? We’re the strongest. We’re stronger than that old bastard’s ever gonna be, ain’t that right?_

Gospel gave a quiet ‘wuf’ of agreement, and though Forte didn’t manage a smile, he did take a slow, deep breath, ignoring the pain it brought to his throat and allowing some of the exhaustion to fall from his shoulders. _We’re stronger . . ._

The SWN straightened up, for once stopping to look around and collect his thoughts and think things through. The thick, dark clouds on the horizon promised more rain to come soon, and every step shifted more soft, sticky mud under his feet. Shelter, he mused, shelter was a priority. Being out in the mud and rain for a long time wasn’t good for any synthetic, especially one who was already in dire need of maintenance.

Stretching to work some of the stiffness from his limbs, he tilted his head for Gospel to follow him and got to work searching through the nearest stack of scrap metal. It wouldn’t exactly be a cozy house, he thought as he dragged out a large, jagged slab of sheet metal, but he couldn’t afford to be choosy.

As he got to work fashioning a crude little shelter for himself and his support unit, he became aware that it would probably be a long, long time before he would be anywhere warm and comfortable again.

Three more pieces of scrap sufficed for the walls of his makeshift shack, the largest slab going on top as the roof. He welded the metal together easily with the use of his Wave Burner, thankful that his habit of hoarding weapons had finally come in handy for something other than getting his ass handed to him.

Satisfied that his structure would be sturdy, he started digging through the piles of junk once again, soon coming across what looked as though it used to be a granite countertop in someone’s kitchen. Used to be, at least, now it was going to be the floor for his new ‘bedroom’, something that wouldn’t soak through from the rain and wouldn’t sink into the mud too much.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Of course, the second he thought as much, a fresh pain shot through the inside of his throat, bad enough to make him stop in his tracks and drop the granite with a shudder. Dammit- dammit, stop, _stop_ , he didn’t want to start remembering all that all over again, _stop_ -!

He needed to make this stop . . .

But . . . Asimov in heaven, just the thought made his hands shake, he was . . . he was _scared_. Sure, he’d done repairs to himself and Gospel more times than he could count, he knew his own systems inside and out, but this . . .

This was . . .

_Strong_.

He had to do this. Now, while it was still light. He at least needed to start.

No amount of willpower could steady his nerves at this point, but he unrolled the blanket of supplies regardless, tucking the blanket itself into his makeshift shelter to be dealt with later. First things first, he needed to get those . . . stitches out, if one could even call them stitches. Part of him was certain that Wily had only done as much to rub salt in the wound.

Actually he was completely one-hundred percent certain that Wily had only done as much to rub salt in the wound. Fucking old bastard.

He took off his helmet, gauntlets, and torso armor and stored them away with his blanket, running a hand through his short, fluffy blond hair and settling down on his knees outside of his little shack. The metal was old, but it still had enough sheen to be a makeshift mirror for the moment.

Once again, the sight of his reflection made him shudder, but he quickly gathered his wits and sorted through his tools until he found a pair of small, needle-nosed clippers. To say that this was going to be _unpleasant_ would be the understatement of 20XX.

Gospel padded over to lay down with his chin on Forte’s knee, and the SWN tilted his head up to expose his neck, hesitating a moment longer before cutting the first taut wire.

The ensuing snap was painful enough to make Forte drop the clippers entirely and double over, shaking hands clutched over his neck and eyes screwed tightly shut. He couldn’t do this, how was he supposed to _do_ this? Sure, he could shut down his pain receptors, but then he’d risk accidentally doing more damage, maybe even _permanent_ damage, and he couldn’t _do_ this! He was going to have to live with a hole in his throat for the rest of his-

Gospel’s head suddenly butted into his waist, hard enough to knock the SWN onto his side in the dirt, and for a moment Forte was too dazed to react- at least until the wolfbot’s tongue slopped across his cheek. _Strong_ , Gospel repeated, pawing furiously at his master’s stomach. _Strong enough. Fix. Fix good, get stronger?_

Forte shoved Gospel off of him, biting back a groan and rubbing his now-sore stomach as he sat up and wiped off his wet cheek. _Sit_ , he ordered, picking up the dropped clippers and settling on his knees again. _You stay. I’ll stab myself in the neck if you startle me like that._

Gospel sat down obediently, wagging his tail and letting his tongue hang out the side of his mouth.

Okay. Okay, he could get through this. One way or another, he’d find a way to get past this shit. There were only six more stitches, he could handle that.

Well he could pretend he could handle it anyway.

This time, he was prepared for the results of snapping through the tight wire, though the pain was still enough to make him stiffen and shudder and grit his teeth. _Don’t stop_ , he told himself, pausing only long enough to steady his hands before moving on and cutting the next. _If you stop, you’ll lose your nerve, keep going. Just four left . . ._

It _hurt_ , he couldn’t stop himself from shaking and the more he shook, the more he was afraid he’d damage something beyond repair by accident . . .

_Three more_ -

Steady, stay with it, he was almost there, it was just pain, pain wouldn’t kill him-!

_Two_ -

Instinct had him grasping for his support unit’s mental connection; as much as he didn’t want to share his pain with the wolfbot, he needed _something_ to hold onto, his vision was getting blurry and his resolve was failing, but not yet, almost . . . !

_One more . . . !_

The last suture snapped softly as it was cut, and Forte dropped the clippers and curled up with his hands covering his neck, soft, garbled whimpering noises escaping him as Gospel nuzzled into his arms. _Stop, stop, too much, can’t breathe, too much . . ._

He managed to gather enough concentration to lower the sensitivity of his pain receptors, leaving them at around twenty percent of what they usually functioned at. Even then, it was a good ten minutes of shaking before he slowly sat up, his vision clouded with pain and all of his will to fix himself exhausted for now.

The clouds were rolling in again and darkening the sky, and with no light and no desire to continue his work in the rain, Forte gathered his tools and retreated into his shelter with Gospel at his heels.

He wrapped his arms around the wolfbot’s neck, resting his cheek against Gospel’s temple with a soft, resigned sigh. In his haste to flee from the hospital, he hadn’t thought to grab any kind of light source, nothing he could use for warmth or comfort, no extra blankets, not even a pillow. Real good start taking care of himself so far, wasn’t it. Cold, lonely, his throat still hurt like a ball of hot plasma on bare skin-

But alive.

And he was sure more than anything else that if he’d stayed at Wily’s lab much longer, he would’ve ended up shut down and broken into scrap parts for DWN-Infinity’s chassis.

He closed his eyes, letting Gospel’s quiet snuffles and the steady patter of raindrops against the roof of his shelter soothe his rattled nerves somewhat. Okay, so maybe he _was_ alone, but maybe . . . maybe even that wasn’t so bad, as long as he had Gospel. For once, he could do as he pleased whenever he pleased, without having an old man breathing down his neck or snapping orders at him or spitting insults every time he so much as twitched a finger wrong.

Maybe . . . change would be . . . change would be okay, this time . . .


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'This character is my child,' I say as I continually torture them both physically and emotionally.

Forte jerked awake hours later in a fit of terror, opening his mouth in a scream only for nothing to come out saved for a garbled, glitched cry of pain. Coolant- there had been coolant _pouring_ from his throat and choking him and he’d slipped in the puddle and fallen and no matter how tight he held his hands on his neck it _wouldn’t stop spilling out._

It was still wet, he could still feel wetness on his palms and knees and-

And . . .

Rain.

It was just rain.

He lifted his head, breathing a shaky sigh of relief that turned into a pained whine when he saw the leak in his makeshift roof. So this was what it was like to have nightmares, was it? It _sucked_ , it sucked all kinds of proverbial ass feeling so weak and vulnerable and helpless.

More and more he was finding that fear in general sucked every possible kind of proverbial ass.

Gospel, of course, had nuzzled into Forte’s arms as soon as the SWN began to shake, and now the wolfbot leaned up to give his master’s ear a slobbery if comforting lick. Forte slowly leaned his back against the wall, his idle gaze following the drip of water from the leak in his roof. He’d have to re-solder that tomorrow morning . . .

This wasn’t right. This _couldn’t_ be right, right? He was a _war machine_. The strongest robot ever created. He wasn’t supposed to be sulking in the rain with a dog on his lap and a hole in his throat with his whole body shaking because he couldn’t for the life of him deal with fear well enough to calm himself down.

He was supposed to fight. Fight and win, then fight and win again, then fight some more and win some more too.

If anyone saw him right now, he mused dryly, they’d probably think he was a lost child, not a made-to-fight villain.

Maybe he _should_ go back. That tug at his programming was still there, nagging at him to fight and win, making him want to seek out Rock like a dog chasing a stick. Fuck, he really _was_ Wily’s dog, wasn’t he? He wasn’t a son or a reliable member of a team, he was just a dog running errands and chasing a ball. Or a Lightbot, as it were. Wily never truly would’ve been _proud_ of him.

He supposed if he really wanted to, he _could_ go finish Rock off one of these days, once he was healed. It would certainly calm that annoying itch in his protocols down. For the first time, however, with quite literally nothing to do but sit and listen to the rain and think about life and existence, he asked himself, _what then_? What would happen if he _did_ finally overcome the Lightbot? He’d have fulfilled his purpose then . . . right?

And if that was the only purpose he’d been built for, then . . . what was he supposed to do once he’d fulfilled it?

Having an existential crisis was confusing.

Oddly enough though, letting his mind wander and ask question after question was starting to calm him down, at least to the point where he was shivering more from cold than fear. Maybe he was thinking too far ahead. He’d never really been _good_ at thinking ahead and trying to start now was just making his head hurt. His immediate needs were obvious though- repairs, light, and better shelter. Preferably shelter without a leaky roof; he liked the rain, but not that much.

Tomorrow, he decided to himself firmly. Tomorrow he’d start. Maybe even start _over_.

Yeah. Starting over sounded like a good idea.

 

* * *

 

Starting over was proving to be harder than he anticipated.

For one, it was proving hard to get his damn support unit to sit still and _not_ crawl right back into his arms as soon as he sat back. _Stay_ , he silently commanded yet again, waiting for a few moments to make sure that Gospel wouldn’t drop the hubcap in his mouth. It was easier to see into clearly than the side of his shelter, the leaky roof of which he’d fixed as soon as he’d woken up. _Sit, Gospel, stay. You stay._

Gospel whined in protest, but finally did as he was told, and Forte sat back with a shaky, nervous sigh and picked up his toolkit. He didn’t want to do this, at all, his stomach hurt . . .

Since when could robot masters get stomachaches?

Whatever.

He picked up a tool that looked similar to small, rounded metal rod and gently tugged aside the synth-skin that barely covered the open wound, tilting his head back and waiting a moment for his optics to adjust and let him see the inside of his own throat in the hubcap’s reflective surface. The sight made him grimace at once; while he was no stranger to grievous injury, it was still disturbing to stare at the mangled insides of your own body.

In spite of being built for combat rather than nursing, Forte was no stranger to repairs, having long since decided that trusting his creator to fix any part of himself or Gospel was a _bad idea_ that would probably end in being taken apart and put back together in both body and coding. Not that he’d ever repaired a vocal processor before, but it couldn’t be _that_ different than a plasma blaster.

Maybe.

Well the process seemed the relatively the same, at least. Remove any shrapnel or foreign objects, reattach wires, make sure everything was plugged in, inject nanites and pray. Huh, maybe things were easier when he stopped to think them through first. Funny how that worked when he wasn’t in combat.

He picked up his needle-nosed pliers, lowering his pain receptors to a near-minimum so that one touch wouldn’t make him start screaming. Glitch-screaming. Trying to scream. Details. Wily really had done a number with his hands, the main part of the vocal processor cracked and crumpled and nearly all of the wires snapped, not to mention the shards of metal stuck damn near everywhere. No fucking _wonder_ it hurt to breathe, he may as well have had barbed wire in his throat.

Aware that he was stalling, he shut his eyes for a moment to gather his willpower before hesitantly grabbing hold of one of the metal splinters and tugging it free. It didn’t feel _pleasant_ , but the sting of metal tearing out of metal was followed by a hint of relief. He was rather sourly reminded of the time he’d accidentally faceplanted into an artificial cactus, and the several subsequent hours that he’d spent plucking the metal spines out of his cheek.

At this point, he wasn’t sure if he preferred this or the cactus. Probably the cactus, at least he could blow that into tiny pieces to make himself feel better.

It was a good half hour of work before he was satisfied that all of the metal shards had been removed from his throat. There was still a throbbing ache all through the inside of his neck, but it was . . . a little better. Not so sharp.

He looked up, weighing how much daylight was left against how much he wanted to stop and lay down and sulk about his existence some more. Then again, if he stopped, there was no way in hell he was going to want to summon yet more willpower to finish later.

Probably best to finish now, he thought with a resigned sigh that made him wince, picking up his tool and tilting his head up again.

Wires next, wires . . . Forte settled down more comfortably on his knees, system scans and specs running in front of his left optic to tell him which wires went where. It was always _weird_ , being able to feel your insides being pulled on, gross and uncomfortable and unnerving as fuck, especially the process of stripping the end of the insulation to expose the inner wires. But with his pain receptors turned down it wasn’t _so_ bad, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth slightly in concentration as he carefully re-twined two pieces of a snapped connection.

That part wasn’t, at least. There was some extra wire sticking out now though, and he couldn’t just _leave_ it there, it’d be just as bad as the metal shards. Repressing a shudder at the thought of cutting what amounted to one of his own nerve endings, he traded his pliers for a pair of wire cutters, still not daring to completely shut down his pain receptors for fear of jabbing something vital without realizing it. Okay, okay, he could handle this, he could do this, one, two three-

He snapped the cutters through the excess wire sharply, knowing that it would only be ten times worse if he gave it a slow grab and twist, but even getting it over with quickly hurt _so goddamn fucking bad_. Bad enough that he reflexively dropped both tools he was holding, gritting his teeth to stop himself from trying to cry out in pain and making it worse. It was like someone had run a hot plasma knife through the inside of his neck, it _burned_ and he was shaking again dammit, stop _shaking_ like this!

How was he supposed to _do_ this? He could barely handle cutting _one_ wire, how was he going to do this over and over again until everything was fixed? He _couldn’t_. There was no _way_ he could . . .

His thoughts slowly trailed off, and he realized that he could practically hear his creator’s voice sneering at him. You _can’t_. You’re only built to fight, you can’t do things like this. _You can’t_.

That was what everyone would say, wasn’t it? That this wasn’t who he was, that he couldn’t do it because he was a machine of war. That fighting was all he _could_ do.

The thought sent a wave of fury through the SWN’s core, a flicker of purple flame gathering at the tips of his fingers for a moment before he clenched his fists to quell it. _Fuck_ them. Fuck anyone who said he _couldn’t_. He could do anything he goddamn well pleased. Fuck that ‘can’t’ shit three ways from next Sunday, _he was going to do this_.

In a strange way, Forte found the anger calming as he picked up his tools, once again ordering Gospel to stay and hold his makeshift mirror as he readied himself to get back to work. At least anger was familiar, not like the still-foreign feeling of cold dread and terror. He knew how to cope with anger.

Well maybe not cope, but he knew how to exist in a state of anger at least.

If nothing else, it fueled his determination to finish, even if he still had to stop and gather himself every time he pulled something too hard or cut through more excess wiring. But every time he felt the urge to stop and give up, he reminded himself of how many people would say _I told you so_ , of how much he hated the words _you can’t_. Fuck them, fuck _all_ of them for telling him what he could and couldn’t do. He’d do whatever the fuck he wanted, _fuck_ them!

As the sun started to ease down in the sky, Forte tossed his tools aside and leaned forward on his hands and knees with a heavy, shuddering sigh. One more thing to do . . .

As much as needles in general disgusted him, he dug around in his toolkit for a syringe and filled it with the nanites he’d stolen from the hospital. Granted it wasn’t as bad when it was his own hands giving him the injection, not Wily’s, but it still made him grimace to have a needle jabbed into his neck.

Wily had never been gentle with injections, to the surprise of no one.

Satisfied that he’d injected enough to allow his systems to finish and refine his repairs, he left some of the nanites in the syringe for later and beckoned Gospel closer to himself with a nod of his head. The wolfbot dropped the hubcap and practically bounded into Forte’s arms, his tail wagging furiously as he covered his master’s face in licks. _Dumb dog_ , Forte thought with a swell of affection. _That’s a good boy . . . good boy, Gos . . ._

The clouds had dispersed completely by now save for a few wisps here and there, and Forte settled down with his back against the wall of his makeshift shelter and Gospel’s head in his lap. Sleeping outside was nice when he wasn’t soaking wet, it was kind of . . . calming? He felt free, at least.

Free . . . that was new, wasn’t it . . .


	4. Chapter 4

For the second night in a row, Forte woke in a terrified fit.

Instinct again had him opening his mouth in an attempt to scream, choking in pain when nothing came out save for a garbled, glitched sound and several wires snapped in the process. He couldn’t get past the image of his creator’s cold eyes leering down at him, or the feel of the rough, uncaring hands digging around inside of his throat-

How did people _handle_ this?! All he could bring himself to do was curl up on his side with a soft whine and grope blindly for his support unit, and hope to _Asimov_ that the shaking and the overwhelming sense of dread and doom would eventually go away. He wasn’t built to cope with this, no way in _hell_ could he ever learn to cope with . . .

_You can’t do it, can you?_

Can’t, there was that _stupid_ fucking word again, _can’t_. Like _hell_ he couldn’t do something, he could do _whatever the fuck he wanted_. He _would_ do whatever the fuck he wanted, from here on out nobody was going to tell him what he could and couldn’t do. Especially that stupid, _stupid_ old man.

In hindsight, getting angry probably wasn’t the best way to deal with being afraid.

But it still felt _better_ than being afraid. He’d rather be shaking with fury than shaking with fear.

He raised a hand to his neck with a grimace, a brief system scan showing that several of the wires he’d fixed had snapped again from the strain of trying to cry out with such force. Too dark to do anything about it now anyway, but god _damn_ that hurt.

At least for now, he could shut off his pain receptors and lay back down with his head on Gospel’s side, concentrating on the only thing he’d known up to this point- anger and hate. He didn’t dare go back to sleep for the risk of waking up in another fit and making his throat even worse, but he could at least rest. Rest, think about how much he hated his creator for trying to hold him back, and listen to Gospel’s quietly rambling trains of thought.

He was calmer by the time the sun rose- by his definition of calm anyway- and as soon as he had enough light to see properly, he sat up and got to work repeating the wiring repairs he’d done the previous day. Somehow, it was easier this time when he wasn’t so focused on the nerve-wracking anticipation of how bad it would hurt. _Sure_ , he told himself as he tugged and twisted wires back into place. _It’s gonna hurt like a bitch. Fucking deal with it._

Once he was satisfied with his repairs for the second time, he turned his attention to his support unit, spending the majority of the day giving the wolfbot a good round of routine maintenance. Gospel whined in protest the entire time, but even that was strangely comforting to the SWN. A lot of shit was different, but Gospel was still the same. Gospel was still Gospel, and Forte . . .

Forte was still having a bit of an existential crisis if he was being completely honest with himself.

He spent the next few days sifting through the refuse in the scrapyard for any useful bits or spare parts, both surprised and annoyed by the amount of useable materials he was able to scrounge up. Fucking Asimov, humans were wasteful fuckers. All the better for him since he wouldn’t be able to get proper maintenance any time soon, mind you.

Every night he continued to have nightmares- sometimes about his creator, sometimes about his own garbled, glitched voice- and every night he’d wake in a fit and curl up against his support unit, desperately trying to drown the fear out with anger and hatred. Sure it wasn’t healthy, but what else was he supposed to do? It wasn’t as if he had anyone to teach him how emotions worked beyond ‘I’m mad at something and want to punch it.’

When Wily’s ninth uprising began, Forte gathered his supplies and his support unit and quietly made his way out of the city. Part of him itched to throw himself headlong into the fight and get back to doing what he was built for, but the rest of him was still . . . uncertain. He was out of shape, besides, and he didn’t want a fight to tear open his wounds again.

Besides, he couldn’t even begin to imagine what he’d do if he came face to face with his creator. Not yet, at least. Not after all the bad dreams, and not with the fact that Wily could simply bark out the word ‘stay’ and Forte would be right back where he started or worse.

Instead, Forte did something he’d never had the chance to do up until now- he traveled.

Maybe it had always been a secret little desire of his, a tug deep down that made him want to see _more_ than just what he was technically supposed to stay put and do. It felt good to be able to fly with Gospel again, and the farther he flew, the more fascinated he became with faraway cultures and sights that he’d never laid eyes on before. Even if he had to borrow (steal) a hoodie and a scarf to hide the tattoos on his cheeks, change the color of his optics from red to a dark blue-violet, and give Gospel a few cosmetic modifications, and even if it took some work to not instinctively jump or take a swing every time someone so much as came near him, he found that people treated him . . . differently when they didn’t recognize him.

The more he traveled, the more he began to wonder if this was how it felt to be a person. An actual _person_ , not a weapon shaped like a person.

Even so, he couldn’t ignore his instincts forever, that stupid, nagging pull to go back and finish what he was technically _supposed_ to do. Fucking stupid programming, why couldn’t Wily just leave him alone, he was _enjoying_ himself. Weird considering that he’d never taken enjoyment before in anything except fighting, but regardless, it was _his_ programming and he didn’t want this stupid itch any more!

Who the fuck cared what Rock did with his life anyway . . .

It _was_ his programming, he seethed to himself as he turned a sharp corner to make his way toward the library a few blocks down. Wasn’t it? So if it was his, he could do whatever the fuck he wanted with it, Wily be damned. _You’re not smart enough for that_ , he could practically hear his creator taunting. _You’re just built to break things, you aren’t smart enough to code. You can’t do it._

_Nobody_ fucking told him what he could and couldn’t do.

 

* * *

 

Okay, to be fair, he hadn’t actually been in a library before, and as a result he had _no fucking clue_ where to start. It didn’t help that he’d been forced to leave Gospel outside, the lack of the wolfbot bumping against his calf at every step leaving Forte more on-edge than usual. There had to be a section about programming or the laws of robotics around here somewhere . . . right?

A hand tapped his shoulder, and he stiffened, instinctively jerking around and swatting the stranger’s arm away from him with a glare that held a silent _don’t touch me_. “Ah- sorry!” the stranger said, taking a quick step back and holding up her hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you, you looked lost. Did you need help finding anything?”

Right. Librarian. Librarians worked in libraries. Forte glanced around warily, tugging his scarf up over his cheeks a little more securely and debating on how to answer. He still hadn’t spoken since . . . that day several months ago, afraid of what kind of broken, unintelligible noise would come from his own vocal processor. He’d always simply pointed to his neck and shaken his head, and most people had assumed he was either shy or injured.

The scarf seemed to help point people toward the latter, to be fair.

Instead of speaking up, he looked back at the librarian and nodded slowly, fighting the instinct that made him want to consider anything and _everything_ a threat and desperately wishing he had his support unit nearby to help steady him. “Are you looking for something specific?” the librarian pressed. “I can point you in the right direction.”

Forte looked down, once again debating over what to do and hoping the librarian assumed he was just some kid who was timid around strangers. He wasn’t, but it was easier than trying to explain ‘my creator ripped my throat out with his bare hands’.

Then again, if he _hadn’t_ spoken since that day, that meant that Wily was getting what he wanted, didn’t it? I don’t want to hear another word out of you, that was what he’d said. And he hadn’t. And at this rate, he wouldn’t.

Fuck that old man, Forte would do whatever the fuck he wanted to. _Including_ talking. Nobody told him that he _couldn’t_ do something and got away with it.

“I . . . um . . .” He spoke softly at first, testing to be sure it wouldn’t strain his vocal processor, and though he felt his voice rasp from lack of use, it didn’t _hurt_ like it had before. And nothing snapped. Things not snapping in half was generally a good start. “I’m . . . looking for something on the laws of robotics,” he finally managed, finding himself unable to look the librarian in the eye as he spoke. Okay, maybe he was _kind of_ shy. If this was what shy felt like. To be fair, he was pretty sure it was mostly out of a lack of casual nonviolent one-on-one interaction with other people who weren’t dogs.

Awkward.

“Programming,” he added. “Coding, and stuff like that.”

“Ah, our section for that is upstairs,” the librarian said with a smile, turning and nodding for Forte to follow her. “We have a lot of robotics students come by to study, so you should be able to find what you’re looking for.”

Forte followed her up the stairs in silence, suddenly remembering that oh yeah humans did extra things when other humans were nice to them. Thanking each other and shit right? “Here you are,” the librarian said, gesturing to the rows of shelves on the second floor. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with.”

“Uh . . . y-yeah. I mean . . . thank you,” Forte managed to stutter out, feeling a strange wave of emotion overcome him as he hurried toward the shelves. Weird, he felt strangely small and warm all of a sudden . . . maybe that was supposed to be embarrassment? He was learning about all _kinds_ of fun shitty new emotions lately.

There were plenty of students around, but the majority didn’t acknowledge Forte with more than a brief glance, most of them either browsing the shelves or intent and focused with their noses in their books. Forte was relieved. Socializing was _hard_.

He stayed at the library until well after dark, flipping through text after text to determine if what he wanted to do was even _possible_. Trying to make this many changes to his coding was one thing, doing it without completely destabilizing himself was another matter entirely . . .

But, as he kept reminding himself while he slid his last book back onto the shelf and headed downstairs, he was going to do whatever he damn well pleased.


	5. Chapter 5

The SWN mentally called for Gospel as he stepped out of the library, rolling his eyes when he realized that the dumb mutt had wandered off sometime during the day, probably to chase either cars or rabbits. _Get your tail over here_ , he ordered his support unit. _We’re leaving_.

Not willing to stand around awkwardly until Gospel caught up to him, he started off toward the scrapyard he’d been staying at- no matter where he traveled, being able to hide at a scrapyard had been a constant that he was grateful for. He had a lot to think about, maybe a quiet walk would give him some time to sort it all out.

“Stop there, kid!”

Or not.

Forte stopped as he was told, his keen hearing picking up two pairs of footsteps approaching behind him, and yet one more set of footsteps coming from the alley directly to his right. “Give us whatever money you got!”

Not that Forte had much money to begin with- he made a bit here and there selling scrap metal or finding loose change, though not really anything of note- but it wasn’t as if he would’ve simply given it up without a fight. He turned to face the three muggers, his tattoos still hidden under his scarf and no trace of fear in his blue-violet eyes. Three humans, none of them really above average in build, two of them holding switchblades, one of them with a lump in their jacket that might’ve been a gun. Maybe.

Absolutely terrifying.

“What, are you deaf?” the frontmost mugger pressed. “Or are you just stupid? Give us your money, shorty, before we hurt ya!”

The SWN’s eyes flashed with anger at the word _shorty_ , and he swore that his body moved before he could think about actually moving because next thing he knew one of the muggers was on the ground and the other two were staring at him wide-eyed. It was always an annoying paradox those laws made- a robot must protect itself, but a robot must not harm humans, even in the case of the human being a threat. Forte had put in a lot of practice dealing with paradoxes though, and he’d convinced himself that he could fight back all he pleased as long as he didn’t hurt them.

Or at least as long as he didn’t hurt them _too_ much.

The two remaining muggers rushed him, and Forte felt a smirk beginning to tug at his lips as he stepped to the side to let one go flying past him, grabbing the arm of the other and easily flipping the lightweight human over his shoulder. He snatched the switchblade from their hand as they fell, euphoria flooding through his circuits at the easy victory. The last remaining mugger was gawking at him in shocked terror, and Forte felt a laugh rise in his chest, the sound rumbling pleasantly in his vocal processor and making his smirk broaden under his scarf. “Better luck next time punkasses!” he chortled as he turned on his heel and strode off, deciding to keep the switchblade as a victory souvenir.

Okay so maybe it wasn’t exactly the fight of the century to brag about, but _damn_ had that felt good.

He met up with Gospel halfway back to the scrapyard, the wolfbot picking up on his master’s good mood and practically bouncing circles around his ankles with every step. Forte allowed him to be as excited as he pleased, quite used to maneuvering around him without tripping, and only when they were safely back in the shelter of the scrapyard did he toss aside his scarf and turn to face the wolfbot. “Sit,” he ordered out loud for the first time in months.

Without so much as a second’s hesitation, Gospel snapped to attention and sat down, ears pricked for his master’s next command.

“Down,” Forte said, pleased to find that there was no trace of glitching or rasping in his voice. “Good. Now stay.”

He took several steps back, and Gospel remained where he was, belly pressed to the ground and tail beginning to wag slowly. “ _Stay_ ,” Forte repeated a little more loudly, and the wagging stopped. “Up. Defend.”

Gospel scrambled to his paws, keeping himself crouched low to the ground as if ready to spring.

“Wait,” Forte commanded. “Hold, Gos, _wait_. Now ready . . .”

Gospel dug his claws into the ground, whining with excited anticipation.

“Sic ‘em!”

The wolfbot bounded forward with a yelp of delight, and Forte skidded backwards several feet with a grunt as Gospel cannoned into his chest and began covering his face in sloppy licks. “Aww, that’s my boy, huh,” Forte chuckled, giving Gospel all manner of love and attention and ear-scratches. “You’re such a good boy aren’t yooooooou. You aaaaare.” Damn it felt good to hear the sound of his own voice again. And it didn’t _hurt_ either.

For everyone who would’ve said he wasn’t capable because he was only built to fight, they could stick scrap metal up their own ass and sit on it.

He plopped down on the ground with Gospel still clambering all over him, feeling his posture soften as he focused on his support unit’s side of their mental connection, the wolfbot’s mind overflowing with affection and excitement. “You’n me, we got a lotta work to do, huh?” Forte murmured. “Got a whole bunch’a coding to go through and fix up.”

Gospel whined in question and Forte shook his head, earning himself a cold, wet nose to the chin. “Course I’m not gonna change that part of our coding,” he said. “It’s just you’n me, from now ‘til we both crumble to rust. Ain’t that right boy?”

The wolfbot flopped down on his master’s lap with a huff of agreement, content to stay there with Forte rubbing his ears until the sun went down and the SWN dozed off. For the first time in many months, Forte slept soundly through the night, with no nightmares to jerk him awake in a fit.

Granted, when he woke up the next morning his neck regretted the fact that the rest of his body had fallen asleep sitting up.

Once Gospel had given him more than enough good morning licks and nuzzles, Forte hauled himself to his feet and got to work sorting through the piles in the scrapyard, and by early afternoon he’d come up with several datapads that were still in fairly good working condition. Humans really _were_ wasteful, half of them hadn’t even bothered to wipe the data before throwing it out. A grocery list, someone’s school notes, one of them even looked like an intensely emotional breakup letter.

Man, humans were weird.

This was going to be _hard_ , he mused to himself as he found a nice spot to sit and got comfortable. To remove every aspect of Wily’s control from his coding, down to the last bit and byte, was one thing, but doing it without a full schematic and without breaking something permanently was . . . another matter entirely.

But he could do it. If he could fix his vocal processor with a mirror and a pair of pliers, he could damn well fix his own coding.

Forte spent almost three days straight working on his programming, completely oblivious to the passage of time and everything else around him for that matter. Gospel was content to alternate between laying comfortably at Forte’s side and pacing the edge of the scrapyard, keeping on the watch for any approaching strangers and allowing his master to focus on his coding instead of his surroundings.

He didn’t hesitate for a moment over deleting those fucked-up codes that demanded him to obey Wily’s orders, never to harm the man, to do everything he was told like a weaponized dog. He’d also been programmed with the generalized Three Laws, of course, but he didn’t give much of a damn about humans anyway, so he left those as they were. And he couldn’t _really_ see the harm in the euphoria he got from a good fight and a good victory, so that could stay as well. He needed to have some measure of fun in his life, after all.

When he got to the coding that spoke of Lightbots, a sudden wave of unsureness made his whole body freeze up.

_Defeat Rock_. He felt that tug again, the nagging pull he’d been trying so hard to ignore for the past several months. _Prove you’re better than Rock._

If he’d been working so hard to ignore it then it was fine to get rid of it . . . right?

Yet somehow the thought scared him- scared him _bad_ , now he even knew how to put words to that feeling (sort of). That was the entire reason he’d been _built_. If he deleted the coding that defined his whole purpose for existing . . . what then?

What would be his purpose _then_?

At the same time, he knew in his core that he’d enjoyed himself more traveling with Gospel the past several months than he ever had trying and failing again and again to best the heroic little Lightbot. _What’s a machine without a purpose? Even_ they _have a purpose_. Or at least he could assume Blues had a purpose at one time, Asimov only knew what the smug son of a bitch did nowadays.

Then again . . . he’d done well to ignore it for this long, so maybe . . . it wouldn’t hurt to leave it be. He could always go back and delete kill-lightbot.exe at a later date if he wanted.

Him, of all people, trying to exercise self-control. Who would’ve thought.

He blinked several times as his optics slipped out of focus, yawning and rubbing his eyes tiredly and setting the datapad aside. Done . . .

It was done, he thought, wrapping his arms around Gospel’s neck with a shaky sigh of relief. He was . . . free. For real this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Forte's a melty marshmallow around all forms of dogs and puppies and you can't convince me otherwise.


	6. Chapter 6

Months later, when he finally did go back, he regretted it from the second he set foot in the city.

He’d mostly gone out of boredom, an itch to find _something_ to do, and maybe the tug of knowing Rock was there somewhere was getting too hard to ignore. One more time couldn’t hurt, right? Once more, now that he was more free and focused.

Of course it would figure that he’d come back _right_ as roboenza was spreading through the city like wildfire.

Okay, he thought to himself as he darted down a dark back alley with Gospel at his heels. No problem, he could just lay low until a cure popped up, steal some, and get on with his life. God fucking Asimov dammit he had the _worst_ luck in the world, was it possible to design a robot with the sole purpose of having shitty luck at every single goddamn turn?

A buzzsaw whizzed by the left crest of his helmet, and he swore internally as he and Gospel turned to face the hostile unit.

Several days and a number of robot masters later, Forte was exhausted. He’d been in dire need of a thorough maintenance session before this, never mind now that he’d been in numerous fights. “Fucking hell,” he muttered as he tied a piece of scrap cloth around his bleeding forearm. “We gotta get the hell outta here, Gos . . .”

The wolfbot grunted in agreement, snuffling at Forte’s arm as if to ensure that the makeshift bandage was secure. They couldn’t leave yet though- Forte could feel his systems running hotter than normal and he knew damn well that it wasn’t from the stress of fighting. To the contrary, fighting the robot masters was the only time he _wasn’t_ feeling dazed and unfocused and generally like complete ass.

Well the news had said something about roboenza making units violent, he supposed it went hand-in-hand with his nature anyhow.

“We need a cure fast,” he mused to himself out loud, his gaze shifting to the skull-topped towers he could barely see peeking over the horizon. “Guess we ain’t got no other choice, huh boy?” Rock and maybe Blues were bound to be heading the same direction, but for once he didn’t give two shits. All he wanted was a damn _cure_ so he could _leave_. And maybe some new weapons data couldn’t hurt, but mostly a cure.

Gospel simply whined, flattening his ears warily and shuffling closer to Forte’s side.

 

***

 

This turned out to be another mark on his list of ‘really shitty decisions’.

Forte dropped to his knees with a choked gasp, one hand braced against the ground to support his weight and the other coming up to clasp against his head. “Asimov _dammit_ ,” he snarled out, his systems feeling twice as hot as they should be and his skull feeling like he’d just taken a lead bullet to the temples. Stupidass fast-acting potent goddamn _virus_!

He couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t. Not after he’d come this far, he couldn’t let a _virus_ of all things stop him! Fucking _hell_ he hated viruses, they were one of the few problems he _couldn’t_ solve by punching them really hard.

An attempt to stand up ended in him collapsing onto his side, his chest heaving as he struggled to draw enough breath to cool his taxed systems. “Fuck,” he wheezed out, his vision beginning to spin as blackness threatened at the edges of his optics. “N . . . not . . . not now . . . dammit . . .” Not after he’d come this far . . . not when he was finally, just now _finally_ starting to feel free . . .

Somewhere around the white noise screaming in his aural circuits he heard a familiar howl, and a moment later a cold nose was jabbing and nuzzling along the tattoo on his left cheek. “G . . . Gos?” he rasped, making half an effort to lift his head. He’d sent the wolfbot out to scout ahead some time ago when his own strength had begun to fail, hoping that maybe he’d make it through if he was ready in advance for any nasty surprises. “Hey, boy . . . y’were supposed t’stay ahead of me, dumb mutt . . .”

Gospel whined softly, dropping a small, metal object in front of the SWN’s nose before flopping down to pant, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. “Whatcha got for me, huh,” Forte muttered, pushing himself up on his elbow and picking up what his support unit had dropped. It looked a little something like a pill, although with a metal nut on the center holding the two colored halves together. “I’ll be damned . . . where’n hell’d ya get this, Gos . . .”

The wolfbot gave another whine and nuzzled his way under Forte’s arm, and almost at once the SWN became aware of the waves of heat radiating off of his companion. “Dammit . . . ya went and caught it too, didn’t ya? Dumb . . . dumb dog . . .”

He knew he needed the strength, he needed every ounce of strength he could get, but . . . he needed Gospel too. He wasn’t going to leave Gospel behind to overheat beyond repair. Not any option in the realm of possibility, ever. No way. Forte picked up the small capsule and cracked it in half, gulping down one piece and holding the other out in front of Gospel’s nose. “Here, boy. Go on, take it.”

Gospel made a small noise of protest, but obediently lapped up the capsule piece, following up by giving Forte’s face a rather sloppy lick. Forte twisted his head away with a halfhearted grumble, slowly easing himself to his feet as the medicine almost immediately began to take effect. “C’mon, boy, let’s keep goin’.”

He coughed a few times to clear his ventilation systems, straightening up and giving himself a shake before beginning to press forward once again, Gospel padding heavily at his side. His systems were far from being at one-hundred percent, he was still hot and his limbs felt like dead weights. Whatever Gospel had stolen, Forte was sure it was only a prototype cure.

It was enough for now though. No way in hell he was giving up now. Not after fixing himself up this much and coming this far.

He pressed onward, Gospel plodding at his side and bumping against his hip every time he stumbled. The virulent bug was mixing with the evil energy in Forte’s core in a strangely unpleasant way, making him feel dazed and sick but somehow also ready to burst with unspent vigor.

Funny, he always thought being quite literally dizzy with power would be more fun than this.

As it was, once again the only thing keeping him going was the idea of someone telling him _you can’t_. You can’t _possibly_ make it through this entire fortress alone, much less when you’re sick, and what will you do if you _do_ make it to the top? You _couldn’t_ convince Wily to just politely hand over a cure.

Like fucking hell he couldn’t, he thought to himself irritably as he smashed through several capsules of completely unnecessary robot master clones. His mood was getting steadily worse, and it showed in the way his posture stiffened and his fights became more uncontrolled and reckless. Gospel was picking up on it too, his stance low and his throat rumbling with a steady, continuous growl.

If there was one thing Forte knew about Wily, it was that the old bastard would be poised and waiting for Rock to show up, probably with some giant ugly skull-themed something-or-other. And Forte was _not in the fucking mood for that kind of shit_.

Then again, he thought as he turned around a seemingly dead-end corner and slid his hand along the wall until he felt something just subtly different. If there was another thing he knew about Wily, it was that there was always a back door _somewhere_.

He silently ordered Gospel to stand back, gathering a wave of malicious, otherwordly power into his core and releasing it from his body in an explosion of violet flame, the force easily tearing through the panel in the wall and opening the way to the hidden lab. Gospel padded through the smoke and debris first, a low growl in his chest and his master following close behind.

Wily himself was plastered in a corner with a screwdriver in his hand, having clearly not been expecting anyone to find his hidden little hole in the wall, much less come knocking with a ball of fire. “Y-you-?!” he stuttered out.

Forte simply glowered at him from across the room, a mental tug keeping Gospel from immediately springing forward and clamping his jaws around the man’s leg. The SWN took a brief moment to survey the room- security monitors, of course, he’d need to know when Rock was getting near after all, blueprints and controllers, a headset carelessly tossed on the desk, probably to communicate orders to his ranks-

And _there_ was the thing Forte had come for, right under the security monitor was a small pile of the same pill-like objects that Gospel had brought him earlier, although these looked much more refined. Wily must’ve been hard at work while he waited for Rock’s approach.

“Well?” Wily said at last, prompting Forte to shift his gaze back toward his creator. “Did you finally give up on playing lone wolf and decide to come crawling back?”

Forte simply stared at him for a few more long moments, a million different thoughts and insults running through his head at once. There were any _number_ of ways he could respond to that, including a fist to the mouth if he really wanted.

But in the end he decided on a simple, “No.”

Wily recoiled as though he’d been struck by a snake, and Forte felt the corner of his lip twitch up in a smirk. “You can _talk_?” the roboticist half-stuttered.

“Take all the intelligence in your genius brain to figure that one out?” Forte sneered. With a derisive snort, he turned and paced over to the desk to grab a handful of the cures- a few more than he needed, though he didn’t see any reason to take every single one. He’d use them later, when he was far, far from any viral areas- no sense in taking it now and getting infected again on the way out. Gospel stayed firmly planted between the SWN and his creator, poised to snap at the slightest provocation.

“How _did_ you do it then?” Wily snapped. “Did you go crying to the Lights and beg them for help and forgiveness? Or was it Cossack?”

“Neither,” Forte replied, flashing his creator a cold glare. “Ain’t none’ya damn business either so fuck off. C’mon, Gos.”

He turned with a whistle, heading back toward the hole in the wall he’d entered from to be on his way before something went horribly drastically wrong. “Forte!” came his creator’s shout behind him. “Stay where you _are_ , SWN.”

Forte looked back over his shoulder, once again feeling his lips twitch up in a satisfied smirk. He knew _exactly_ what Wily was expecting- a flinch, a freeze and collapse to his coding. Total obedience, just because he said so.

Instead, all the roboticist got was a bark of a laugh and a middle finger before Forte turned his back and stalked out with his chin held high, leaving Wily gawking after him in shocked confusion. He wasn’t in the mood to argue with the nutty old bastard anyway, he had far better things to do. Like getting out of here and getting healthy, for example.

Of course, it couldn’t ever just be _that_ easy.

He hadn’t rounded but three more corners on the hunt for an easy exit when he came face-to-face with the last two units he wanted to see right now, both Lightbots looking overheated, battered, and overall exhausted. Rock immediately raised his weapon, Gospel growled, Rush growled back, and Forte rolled his eyes and made no move whatsoever to arm his own weapon. Blues, of course, stood nearby and stared silently in that way that Blues was apt to do. “Put your weapon down, dumbass, I ain’t in the goddamn mood,” Forte grunted, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly and allowing Gospel to continue glaring a hole in Rush as long as he didn’t start anything with his teeth. “My head’s fuckin’ killing me.”

Rock blinked, his blue eyes wide and round as he slowly loosened his posture, though Forte noticed that the Lightbot wisely didn’t disarm his weapon. “Why are you here then?” Rock asked warily. “You weren’t following us?”

“ _No_ ,” Forte replied crossly. “I’m here ‘cause I don’t like catching the flu any more than you do.”

“So . . . so you’re not working with _him_?”

“Fuck no,” Forte snorted. “I don’t give a fuck about the old bastard. And world domination’s never interested me.” Being _stronger_ than everyone in the world maybe, but that wasn’t the same as world _domination_. Nor was it relevant.

Acting more on impulse than thought, he fished out two of the small pills he’d scooped up from Wily’s lab table and tossed them in Rock’s general direction. Why? Fuck if he knew, but something had compelled him to do it and he wasn’t in the mood to question his own moral choices right now. “Take ‘em, I got more’n enough for us,” he said.

“You sound different,” Rock blurted out.

Forte stiffened, a spike of worry making his corebeat speed up. _Different_? No fucking _way_ he sounded different, he sounded fine, he’d fixed everything up perfectly down to the last wire! He couldn’t sound-

“I mean, just the way you’re talking,” Rock went on. “And acting. Something’s different.” He paused. “And your eyes are blue.”

For a few more moments, Forte wasn’t sure what to say. Was that supposed to be flattery or an insult? Or . . . neither? Fuck if he knew, socializing, if that was what you called this, was still confusing as fuck. “I know what color my own damn eyes are, dumbass,” he finally snapped out. “Now go piss off, I’m fuckin’ out. Wily went somewhere that way,” he added with a wave of his hand.

“Let’s _go_ , Rock,” Blues finally piped up. “The sooner we get out of here the better.”

“Ah- yeah, sorry Blues, I’m coming.” Rock started to turn, only to hesitate a moment longer and glance back over his shoulder. “Forte?”

The SWN grunted disagreeably, and Gospel concurred with a snort of his own. Resisting the itch in his programming _this_ long was hard enough, much less when the Lightbot continued to nag him with questions . “Whaddaya want now.”

“If you’re not working with him any more, what are you going to do now?”

Forte fell silent, and Gospel looked up at him and gave a quiet, uncertain whine. If he was being completely honest with himself, he had no fucking _clue_ what he was going to do next. Again, he wondered what good a robot without a purpose was-

But hell, he’d survived his existential crisis for months so far, may as well keep going until the universe forced him to stop, right?

“None’ya damn business,” he replied with a snort. “Fuck off, Lightbot.”

He turned and broke into a sprint with Gospel at his heels, and this time he promised himself he wouldn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends! I had waaaaay too much fun going back and revisiting this one and I love this little snakefucker to DEATH. Well, not literal death, that'd be a sad ending.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
